⦓ he should be dead. sort of. maybe not dead dead, but at least a little less than alive. whatever death is supposed to be like, when you battle a literal nightmare in a world you frequently walk when slumber overtakes you. truth be told, dreams and reality have somewhat blended together over the years, and anything less than ghastly is a luxury at this point. especially with the song. the tune stuck in his head, on repeat, no shuffling, unhinged and loud and hushed in the way that it just creeps up on him whenever he doesn’t have the mental strength to quiet it. not the kind of ear worm you want, but then again, anything he ever did want, he rarely had.
and he’s tired.
it’s the song, mostly. the calling. or it was, anyway, oddly subdued here in faint darkness, just enough of a glow to guess the visages of his newfound companions. the tent reeks. or maybe it’s the stench of half-death he carried with him, bloodied corpses, demons and all that. fun times. he’ll roll with it, though. with… whatever this is, because if he’s managed to preserve the inquisition, help his comrades and fellow wardens somehow, if the end of the line is this right here… well. it’s probably more than he deserves.
hunger is still a thing, though. if you’re trying to sleep—sorry. please don’t mind him as he rummages through the meager bits of food he managed to gather earlier in the day, none of which palatable-looking. crushed berries, slightly rotten. raw fish. an impressive variety of mushrooms, and—somehow—dry bread. could probably knock a few teeth out of a bandit’s mouth with it, too. if he wasn’t starving, anyway.
he sighs without meaning to, a mouthful he munches with surprising gusto, until he stops, mid-chew, squinting back at whoever’s staring. ⦔
…I’m Fereldan? ⦓ no frill, no pretense. though to be fair, he doubts even a mabari would have touched his ration. ⦔ Look, I know what you’re thinking… but beggars can’t be choosers. I’d even be inclined to share if you didn’t have that… whatever expression that’s on your face right now. Disgust? Oh, I've had worse... Trust me.
A-HUNTING WE WILL GO
Whooooo’s a good boy! Whooo’s a gooood boy? Who’s the beeeeest booooy.
⦓ give alistair a dog and this is what happens. even with the mangiest of all hounds. it’s no mabari, but it barks, and it smells, and it drools, and it’s wonderful. his probably temporary but already loyal furry companion stands proud next to him, a fluffle of dead rabbits scattered around him, near the landslide he'd somehow completely missed. listen. he knows what it looks like, and as he resumes scratching the dog’s ears, he looks up, slowly, fresh cuts on his face and hair a bit pell-mell, his whole expression the equivalent of a weary shrug. ⦔
What? You’ve clearly never heard of rats, and the things they can do to you. ⦓ a tiny roll of eyes, and a wave of his hand, unprompted, half-exasperated. ⦔ Yes, I know. These aren’t rats... but don’t let the fluff fool you. Have you seen their teeth? ⦓ he nearly died! again!!! ⦔
WELL, WELL, WELL
⦓ to be fair, they do sound quite eerie. the tales. but alistair finds himself unfazed. he stares unfocused into the flames of the fire crackling, elbows on his thighs, eyes a little distant. there are wrinkles there that weren’t there before, and the slight upturn of his lips reveal no humor. ⦔
Creepy… ⦓ he doesn’t say it to anyone in particular, a half-groan in his throat, chest rising full as his voice lowers. ⦔ It’s bad, isn’t it. To grow… desensitized. Not that I am. Not really. ⦓ a beat, brows furrowing. ⦔ I don’t know… It’s just, when you’ve stared death in the face more often than you ever should have… ⦓ his voice trails off. his eyes close. he sighs, blinking. and he says nothing more. ⦔
⦓ ooc: poke me @ pandaemonium if you'd like to plot something else or if you have anything specific in mind! ⦔
alistair theirin | dragon age | TDM tourist & voice-testing ;;
⦓ he should be dead. sort of. maybe not dead dead, but at least a little less than alive. whatever death is supposed to be like, when you battle a literal nightmare in a world you frequently walk when slumber overtakes you. truth be told, dreams and reality have somewhat blended together over the years, and anything less than ghastly is a luxury at this point. especially with the song. the tune stuck in his head, on repeat, no shuffling, unhinged and loud and hushed in the way that it just creeps up on him whenever he doesn’t have the mental strength to quiet it. not the kind of ear worm you want, but then again, anything he ever did want, he rarely had.
and he’s tired.
it’s the song, mostly. the calling. or it was, anyway, oddly subdued here in faint darkness, just enough of a glow to guess the visages of his newfound companions. the tent reeks. or maybe it’s the stench of half-death he carried with him, bloodied corpses, demons and all that. fun times. he’ll roll with it, though. with… whatever this is, because if he’s managed to preserve the inquisition, help his comrades and fellow wardens somehow, if the end of the line is this right here… well. it’s probably more than he deserves.
hunger is still a thing, though. if you’re trying to sleep—sorry. please don’t mind him as he rummages through the meager bits of food he managed to gather earlier in the day, none of which palatable-looking. crushed berries, slightly rotten. raw fish. an impressive variety of mushrooms, and—somehow—dry bread. could probably knock a few teeth out of a bandit’s mouth with it, too. if he wasn’t starving, anyway.
he sighs without meaning to, a mouthful he munches with surprising gusto, until he stops, mid-chew, squinting back at whoever’s staring. ⦔
…I’m Fereldan? ⦓ no frill, no pretense. though to be fair, he doubts even a mabari would have touched his ration. ⦔ Look, I know what you’re thinking… but beggars can’t be choosers. I’d even be inclined to share if you didn’t have that… whatever expression that’s on your face right now. Disgust? Oh, I've had worse... Trust me.
Whooooo’s a good boy! Whooo’s a gooood boy? Who’s the beeeeest booooy.
⦓ give alistair a dog and this is what happens. even with the mangiest of all hounds. it’s no mabari, but it barks, and it smells, and it drools, and it’s wonderful. his probably temporary but already loyal furry companion stands proud next to him, a fluffle of dead rabbits scattered around him, near the landslide he'd somehow completely missed. listen. he knows what it looks like, and as he resumes scratching the dog’s ears, he looks up, slowly, fresh cuts on his face and hair a bit pell-mell, his whole expression the equivalent of a weary shrug. ⦔
What? You’ve clearly never heard of rats, and the things they can do to you. ⦓ a tiny roll of eyes, and a wave of his hand, unprompted, half-exasperated. ⦔ Yes, I know. These aren’t rats... but don’t let the fluff fool you. Have you seen their teeth? ⦓ he nearly died! again!!! ⦔
⦓ to be fair, they do sound quite eerie. the tales. but alistair finds himself unfazed. he stares unfocused into the flames of the fire crackling, elbows on his thighs, eyes a little distant. there are wrinkles there that weren’t there before, and the slight upturn of his lips reveal no humor. ⦔
Creepy… ⦓ he doesn’t say it to anyone in particular, a half-groan in his throat, chest rising full as his voice lowers. ⦔ It’s bad, isn’t it. To grow… desensitized. Not that I am. Not really. ⦓ a beat, brows furrowing. ⦔ I don’t know… It’s just, when you’ve stared death in the face more often than you ever should have… ⦓ his voice trails off. his eyes close. he sighs, blinking. and he says nothing more. ⦔
⦓ ooc: poke me @